


Adrenalin Fix

by valarmorghulisbitch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Depressing fluff, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season3, Sheriarty - Freeform, Suicide mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:04:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5625949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valarmorghulisbitch/pseuds/valarmorghulisbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I haven't written Sheriarty in a long, long time...<br/>But the Christmas Special aired and the genie's now out of the box.<br/>This is just a short something I am not sure is worth finishing, but I figured now's a good time to share some Sheriarty love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrenalin Fix

“You are so very predictable, my darling Sherlock Holmes,” Jim grunted hiding his smile behind his grey hoodie. He dropped the keys onto the counter, hit the switch on the coffeemaker and collapsed on the couch with a sigh. His health had significantly improved in his months of seclusion, but he still suffered searing headaches quite often.

Sherlock allowed himself a half-smile as he emerged from the deep shadows of Jim’s bedroom into the dimly lit kitchen. He felt a familiar rush of blood to his cheeks, the pounding in his chest, the adrenaline rippling through his muscles. This sensation was his addiction – that craving for adventure, for trouble, for something…not so ordinary. After the initial excitement subsided, a crease of worry crept onto Sherlock’s forehead. Jim was…different, somehow. There was no edge to him any longer, no scent of danger surrounding his very being. He looked tired, broken.

“The infamous Jim Moriarty - ” Sherlock started.

  
“Jim Moriarty’s dead,” Jim cut him off. There was no sharpness to his voice, no steel, just…weariness.

  
“And yet here you are, my dear, so very much alive,” Sherlock continued picking his words carefully, poking at Jim with them, hoping to tug at his once lively spirit, his hunger and his ruthlessness of character.

  
“And who told you I was Jim Moriarty,” at last there showed a slight hint of slyness in the man’s voice. So, the silly pet names had not fallen out of his favor, Sherlock noted.

  
“That round is long over, _Mr. Brooks_ ,” Sherlock felt a pang of joy as he observed a slight contortion in Jim’s features – the sweet symphony of Jim’s anger reverberated in his voice as he replied.

  
“The game is over, Sherlock. It’s all over,” and just like that, the twitch of his mouth smoothened into a pale line of defeat again. “Help yourself,” he motioned towards the coffee pot, “…Sherlock Holmes.” Jim’s voice retained the heavy Irish accent, but the soft, catlike, vicious purr was gone from it.

Sherlock shrugged his coat off his shoulders – the flat was warm and dry, the polar opposite of London at the moment – and poured himself a cup. Lukewarm, cheap black coffee from the supermarket below. Sherlock’s nose twitched bringing a soft chuckle from the couch. “You’ve always been so picky, dear.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

“I was going to do it, you know,” Jim slurred reaching for the wine glass – his fourth, and upon finding it empty, grabbed the half-filled bottle – their second…or third perhaps, from the coffee table. “Not with a gun,” he chuckled motioning to his left temple, his fingers involuntarily brushing the thin scar behind his ear. “Seb was out scouting me some poison when you brutally murdered him, actually.”

“I didn’t murder him,” Sherlock replied somewhat coldly while trying to snatch the bottle from Jim’s unsteady hands. “It was a well-coordinated accident.”

  
“Still afraid of our eerie similarity of character, eh?” Jim smiled with one side of his mouth. “You…are…me, remember,” he leaned forward whispering into Sherlock’s ear and successfully recovered the wine bottle from Sherlock’s firm grip – the man had somehow taken hold of it between Jim’s hasty sips. Sherlock just sighed and let his head drop back on the cushions. Jim grinned slowly and drowned the remaining wine in one quick instant. Another glass and his vision would begin to blur and god knows what he might disclose to Sherlock then.

“You can’t just quit,” Sherlock suddenly bolted upright as though arriving at some decisive conclusion. “If you quit, you would be committing the indirect murder of Sherlock Holmes – a slow and painful one, I must insist, a murder resulted from sheer BOREDOM,” he spat out the last word. Jim’s body may have slowed down all of its processes, but his mind remained sharp as ever. He counted in his head – four glasses for me and another half a bottle; two bottles, that makes Sherlock…pretty damn tipsy.

“Ah, I think my little detective is becoming a little too dependent on me, eh, dear?” Jim giggled at his small victory seeing Sherlock’s futile attempts to regain his cold, distant composure.

“I didn’t come here to be your suicide hotline, Jim,” Sherlock snapped, suddenly on his feet.

“So why did you come then?” Jim sensed the atmosphere in the room change from a cozy drunk evening for two to an icy cold cat-and-mouse game for the first time that night.

Sherlock was muttering under his breath now, barely audible. Deducing…but what? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course Moriarty knew he was alive. He was expecting him. He wanted for him to come, he lured him into this little, if not slightly enjoyable trap to…to…. but why? There seemed to be no ploy, no scheme in the tired mind of the currently retired criminal. Sherlock was angry with himself nonetheless – angry for showing up in Moriarty’s flat, and unarmed, too, hoping for what? Another game? Well, Jim Moriarty wasn’t up for any games any longer. He was tired, weary, lonesome…boring.

“Boring,” Sherlock repeated, grabbing his coat from where he dropped it earlier and heading for the door. Jim didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to stop him. He didn’t try to threaten him or his friends. He didn’t try to coax him. He just let him wrap his faded scarf around his neck and walk out into the rain…only to step back inside and shut the door behind him again.

“Did you misplace something?” Jim asked with only a hint of a smile. He seemed to have regained to some extent his ability to conjure up a cunning response to Sherlock’s unceremonious attempt to leave.

“You know, Sherlylocks, I am going to be honest with you,” he decided that playing fair was his best strategy of holding back the man already standing at the door.

“I was quite surprised when yo-” Jim Moriarty’s first truthful confession since before he could remember was rudely interrupted by a curious mix of cologne, wine, cigarettes, and a hint of aftershave brushing his lips, lingering at the corner of his mouth, and finally smashing his body full force into the couch. Sherlock had no idea what he was doing and what was the proper way to go about it, and Jim was useless, giggling against his mouth like a schoolgirl.

“Not the way I imagined our first…such interaction,” Jim mumbled into his ear as his hand worked through Sherlock’s slightly wet curls.

“And what exactly did you imagine?” Sherlock cupped the back of Jim’s head to get better access to his mouth.

“I imagined I would be the offender,” Jim grinned from ear to ear. Sherlock just sighed heavily – the small man never stopped toying with him, not even in his weakest state of mind.


End file.
